


nobody, not even the rain (has such small hands)

by robotsfighting



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-26
Updated: 2011-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 01:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotsfighting/pseuds/robotsfighting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt and Blaine listen to a summer storm from the safety of Kurt's porch; some kissing, some conversation. <i>"My dad used to take me outside during storms."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	nobody, not even the rain (has such small hands)

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from [somewhere i have never traveled,gladly beyond](http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15401) by e.e. cummings. Also, my sister, light-is-spent, did some [really gorgeous fanart for this](http://kurt-blaine.livejournal.com/2761905.html#cutid1).

There’s something about rain that makes Kurt feel very young. Mostly it’s the hard kind of rain, the kind you can hear on the roof like the roll of a snare, that makes the asphalt on the road look like it’s boiling. He can remember a blue raincoat and floating bottlecaps down the impromptu rapids between the curb and the street, and the bloom of excitement in his stomach when the thunder cracked and growled overhead, the kind of unlikely-but-likely danger that he still sort of loves.

It’s this kind of rain. The no-one’s-home rain, dripping from the hanging plants along the edge of the porch roof and falling in little puddles, too far away to worry him about the possibility of getting wet, sitting with his back against the wall and his ankles crossed in front of him. This had been a good idea; the storm, the porch, in the middle of the day in the middle of summer when Finn is somewhere and the house is quiet and empty. Blaine is asleep against his shoulder, and Kurt understands the bone-deep tired that comes after a week’s worth of performances enough to be fine with that. (Maybe slightly pleased with it; Blaine’s body is warm and heavy against his, Blaine’s face tucked against Kurt’s chest and his shower-fresh hair brushing a little against Kurt’s neck every time he breathes, and he smells like Kurt’s shampoo and the Anderson house and summer.)

Kurt can see the street through the white wooden bars of the porch railing, three miniature rivers flooding and pooling and drifting apart, the grass lush and green where it had been anemic, and if it never stops raining then Kurt is sort of fine with that, too. Rain means the kind of quiet that can’t happen on its own, a calm that can’t be created intentionally. It makes him breathe a little easier, notice things a little more. The feeling of Blaine’s hand tucked loose into his. The rainlight casting blue shadows across the porch. The smell of wet earth and wet grass and the potential of lightning. The way that, if he closes his eyes, he can hear that snare roll above him, and beneath it Blaine’s breath as it puffs warm across his collar.

The thunder starts dim and swells, and Blaine shifts against him.

“Sleep,” Kurt murmurs automatically.

Blaine yawns against Kurt’s shoulder. “I came to see you,” he says, pressing closer, nosing against Kurt’s shirt as if he could burrow into him.

The corner of Kurt’s mouth lifts. “I’m fine here,” he says airily. “Feel free to snore loudly however long you like.”

“Mmm, no snoring.” Blaine’s mouth is open against Kurt’s shirt, and he can feel the humid damp of it against his skin. He shivers, and he can tell that Blaine notices by the way he presses even closer, sliding his hand out of Kurt’s and over his thigh.

“Sleep,” Kurt says again, drawing out the _e_ ’s for long enough to sound almost half-serious.

Blaine smiles against him, a little brush of lips against the skin over Kurt’s collarbone, and Kurt knows that Blaine hasn’t opened his eyes yet. “This is much better,” Blaine murmurs, pressing dry kisses up the side of Kurt’s neck as his palm keeps traveling over the denim of Kurt’s jeans, to the inside of his thigh, and Kurt’s breath comes a little quicker even as he laughs.

He turns to press his hand against Blaine’s neck and kiss him, thumb running along the angle of Blaine’s jaw as he slips his other arm around Blaine’s shoulders. “Neighbors,” he says. “We’re still outside.”

“Awesome. We should sell tickets.” He grins, but moves his hand away, and the air stops catching in Kurt’s throat quite as much. “Do you want to go inside?”

Kurt considers. The rain keeps pattering in heavy gusts against the house and the road and the grass, and the leaves of the potted plants are still dripping against the edge of the porch, the blue light casting shadows against Blaine’s face as he watches. “Do you mind if we don’t?”

Blaine shakes his head and leans in to kiss him again, and the understanding there is one of the many reasons why Kurt loves him. Kurt breaks the kiss and tugs Blaine closer, casting him off-balance so that he ends up with his head in Kurt’s lap, laughing and repositioning himself to be lying down comfortably.

Blaine reaches up and traces his fingers over Kurt’s right cheek, eyes dark and calm and happy. “Hello there,” he says.

Kurt exhales through a smile. “Hi.” He leans down and runs his lips over the curve of Blaine’s jaw, presses a kiss against the corner of his mouth, the tip of his nose, the corner of his eye, the peak of his brow.

“So I noticed I’m in your lap,” Blaine murmurs, twining a hand in Kurt’s shirt to keep him leaning, “even though we’re still in plain view of your elderly neighbor and her many cats.”

“Just wanted to be closer,” Kurt says against Blaine’s temple, then smirks. “And none of my neighbors are elderly cat-owners.”

“There’s always one, somewhere.” Blaine presses his hand flat against Kurt’s chest, and Kurt closes his eyes, resting his forehead against Blaine’s and concentrating on the feeling of Blaine’s warm palm through the fabric of his shirt for a moment.

“My dad used to take me outside during storms,” Kurt says, sitting up. He cards his fingers through Blaine’s hair once, and then again. “There was a porch swing at our old house, and we’d go out and sit and listen.” That was where Kurt had learned to hear the distance between thunder and lightning, where he’d discovered that incredible joy in something loud and bright. It was where he’d first found this calm, tucked against his dad’s side, rocking slowly forward and back, lulled to sleep by the warmth and the movement.

Blaine huffs a laugh. “You were a braver kid than I was. I was terrified of thunder.”

Kurt smirks, one eyebrow raised. “Really?”

Blaine nods, looking up at him. “First sign of a storm, I would hide in my mom’s big wardrobe, behind her dresses.” His eyes soften a little, and he looks away, past the edge of the porch where the oak tree in the side yard waves its wet branches. “It reminded me of Narnia, or the Golden Compass books, I guess. And it smelled like her perfume.”

Kurt watches the profile of Blaine’s face. In the dark blue light, the shadows of his eyelashes against his cheeks are long and bruise-colored. His eyes are a little lost. He never really talks about his parents. They seem to be like ghosts walking repetitious paths in his house a few times a week, sometimes just footsteps or a voice.

“Sorry,” Blaine murmurs. “I shouldn’t--” He breaks off, clearing his throat.

Kurt shakes his head. He leans down again, presses his lips to Blaine’s, very soft. “It’s okay,” he says. “I – I understand. That part.”

Blaine glances up at him, and an expression of pained realization crosses over his face. He winces, lifting a hand hesitantly and then dropping it back where it had been lying against his chest. “I’m sorry. I honestly didn’t think of--”

“I said it’s okay,” Kurt says, a smile touching the corners of his mouth. “Honestly.”

He can’t remember when he told Blaine about his mother’s dresser. Probably one of those strange evenings early in his time at Dalton, when everything was still ethereal and unreal, and they would talk quietly in his dorm room about anything, really, over homework or dinner or just sitting together on his bed, watching the shadows start to grow across the campus through the window. He must have told that story, because he remembers Blaine running his fingers briefly over the dresser in the corner of Kurt’s room when he visited one weekend, with this thoughtful, reverent little expression on his face as he did it. Kurt had watched silently, and fallen a little more in love with him.

“You should come with me to visit her one day,” he says, slipping his hand back into Blaine’s against Blaine’s chest. “It’s nice there. Pretty.”

Blaine looks up at him, his thumb tracing over the back of Kurt’s hand. “I didn’t know you did that. Visited her.”

Kurt shrugs lightly. “Sometimes. A few times a year. I used to more, when I was younger, and when things were--” He pauses, shaking his head with a small smile. “When things weren’t as good as they are now.”

Blaine squeezes his hand, looking at him with a mixture of warmth and earnestness that is just _Blaine_ , all over. “I’d love to go with you,” he says. “Whenever you want to. I’m there.”

Kurt’s smile widens. He leans down and kisses Blaine again. Blaine slips his free hand up Kurt’s neck and into his hair, threading his fingers loose through it at the back of Kurt’s head, and Kurt hums into the kiss before breaking it. He keeps very close, smirking. “I think I’m ready to go inside now.”

Blaine grins as Kurt pushes him to sit up. “You sure?” he asks, watching as Kurt stands up. “I was very comfortable.”

Kurt offers a hand down to Blaine and pulls him to his feet. “I’m sure you were,” he says. He opens the screen door with a squeal of hinges. “There are a lot of things I can do to make you more comfortable.”

Blaine laughs, gesturing with his free arm. “Lead on.”

Kurt grins and pulls Blaine into the house, letting the screen door swing shut behind them. In the distance, the thunder rolls again, with the first line of far-off lightning. The rivulets in the street with their memories of bottlecap boats sweep down into the gutter, washed out to river, then washed out to sea.


End file.
